Stephanie POV
By sixteen, I could break cinder blocks with my bare hands but couldn’t break the silence in our mansion. My days ran on a tight schedule—6 AM Taekwondo drills, school by 7:30, Grandpa’s office by 4 PM, homework until midnight. My planner looked like a battlefield, every hour claimed by some obligation.
The regional Taekwondo championship trophy sat hidden under my bed, wrapped in an old sweater. I’d won it two weeks ago, the gold figure glinting under arena lights as the announcer shouted my name. But when Grandpa William asked about my weekend, I lied. “Study group,” I said, pushing spinach around my plate. He nodded approvingly. Excellence was expected, not celebrated.
Fiore Enterprises became my second classroom. Grandpa’s driver dropped me at the glass tower every Friday after school. The elevator doors opened to whispers—“There’s the heiress,” “Probably here to play secretary.” I kept my head high, navy blazer buttoned over my Taekwondo uniform, and memorized every dismissive smirk.
Mr. Cartwright, the CFO, made me sort expense reports my first day. “Alphabetical order,” he said, patting the stack like it was a dog. I finished in twenty minutes, color-coding discrepancies in red pen. His face turned the same shade when Grandpa William praised my work at the board meeting.
“She’s a natural,” Grandpa announced to the room of suits. Their forced smiles tasted sweeter than Grandma Clara’s lemon bars.
I started auditing online business courses at night, headphones muffling finance lectures as I sparred with imaginary opponents. Compound interest formulas tangled with kick combinations in my sleep.
The only thing louder than my alarm clock was Lila’s disappointment. We hadn’t climbed the oak tree in years, but she still texted weekly—meme forwards, complaints about her geometry teacher, invites to midnight movies. I kept meaning to reply.
She cornered me after school one Tuesday, her curls escaping a messy bun. “You’re ghosting everyone,” she said, blocking my path to the parking lot. “Even Jason Miller asked if you died.”
“Jason Miller threw a spitball at me in seventh grade.”
“He’s worried! We’re all worried.” She gestured at my pressed blouse, my leather portfolio. “When’s the last time you did something fun?”
I shifted my gym bag—two textbooks, sparring gear, tomorrow’s presentation on supply chain logistics. “Fun’s subjective. I’m learning.”
“You’re turning into him.”
The words hit harder than any tournament blow. I saw it sometimes—Grandpa William’s frown in my reflection, his clipped tone in my voice. But hearing Lila say it made my throat burn.
“You don’t get it,” I snapped. “I’m building something. Not all of us can coast on…”
“On what?” Her eyes glistened. “Having friends? Caring about stuff besides money?”
A car honked. Grandpa’s driver waited by the curb, engine idling.
“I have to go,” I muttered.
Lila didn’t text after that.
The trophy under my bed gathered dust until the statewide championship. I placed second, a fraction too slow on my back kick. Grandpa William noticed the silver medal in my gym bag.
“Distractions cost victories,” he said over dinner, slicing his steak with surgical precision.
I stared at the painting behind him—Grandma Clara’s favorite, a sunset over rolling hills. “Yes, sir.”
That night, I rewrote my schedule in red pen. No more movies. No more tree forts. I trained until my knuckles split, until financial statements made sense, until the hollow feeling faded.
At the office, I started arriving earlier. Let them call me “princess.” I’d be queen.
Mr. Cartwright “accidentally” spilled coffee on my market analysis report. I reprinted it, highlighted his department’s budget overages, and slid it to Grandpa before the meeting. Watching him stammer excuses felt better than any trophy.
I found Lila’s last text months later, buried under university brochures. *Miss you, robot girl.* The cursor blinked, but I closed the app. Sentiment wouldn’t balance ledgers or perfect my tornado kick.
My new armor fit perfectly—tailored suits, black belt, ice where my heart used to be. Let the world think me cold. Fires burned brightest in the dark.
The fluorescent lights of Fiore Enterprises buzzed like angry wasps as I sat in the conference room, my fingers tracing the edge of a financial report. Across the table, Mr. Cartwright droned on about quarterly losses, his voice dripping with condescension whenever his eyes flicked to me. “Perhaps someone should explain basic economics to our junior intern,” he said, sliding a spreadsheet in my direction. The room tittered.
I clenched my pen, imagining it as a throwing star. Grandpa William’s gaze burned into the side of my face, waiting. “The losses are concentrated in the Midwest division,” I said, voice steady. “Supply chain delays inflated costs, but the real issue is the outdated vendor contracts.” I flipped to Appendix C, where I’d flagged the discrepancies weeks ago. “Renegotiating these could save twelve percent annually.”
The room fell silent. Mr. Cartwright’s neck flushed mottled red. Grandpa William nodded once, a barely-there curve at the corner of his mouth. Approval.
Later, in the empty office bathroom, I splashed cold water on my face. My reflection stared back pale, shadows undercutting sharp cheekbones. The blazer that once drowned me now hung tailored, armor-like. I tugged my sleeves down, hiding the bruise on my wrist from yesterday’s sparring session.
A group of interns burst in, laughter dying when they saw me. “Oh. She’s here,” one muttered. They clustered by the mirrors, reapplying lip gloss and gossiping about parties I’d never attend.
“Did you hear?” said a girl with a faux-hawk. “The board voted to cut the charity budget. Guess Daddy’s princess needs a new yacht.”
My stomach twisted. Grandma Clara had started that charity after-school programs for girls like the ones she’d once taught. I dried my hands slowly, methodically, until the paper towel shredded. “The cuts are temporary,” I said, turning. “We’re reallocating funds to cybersecurity. Unless you’d prefer hackers draining the yacht money?”
They scattered.
Rain lashed the car window as Grandpa’s driver navigated rush-hour traffic. I squeezed my knees to my chest, sneakers leaving wet prints on the leather seat. My phone buzzed a reminder for tonight’s online lecture: “Advanced Corporate Strategy*.
Another buzz. Lila’s name flashed.
Saw your pic in the Business Times. Congrats, I guess.
Attached was an article photo of me at the boardroom table, face frozen in cold focus. I looked like a statue. A stranger.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard. *I miss you too*, I typed. Deleted. *It’s not what you think.* Deleted. The cursor blinked, relentless.
The car stopped outside the dojo. I shoved the phone into my bag, unanswered.
Master Kim waited on the mats, arms crossed. “Late,” she said.
“Work.”
She threw a kick pad at my chest. “Work harder.”
We were spared in silence, the only sounds were our grunts and the smack of leather on flesh. Sweat dripped into my eyes, blurring the room. I imagined Mr. Cartwright’s smirking face on the dummy, Lila’s disappointed frown, Grandpa’s unreadable stare.
Roundhouse. Jab. Spinning back kick.
Master Kim blocked the last strike, grip vise-like on my ankle. “Anger makes you slow,” she said, shoving me back. “Control it.”
I lunged again, channeling the fire into precision. When the final bell rang, my uniform clung to me, soaked through.
“Better,” Master Kim said, tossing me a water bottle. “Still not enough.”
Midnight. My desk lamp pooled golden light over textbooks and a half-finished case study. The trophy under my bed glinted when I reached for a highlighter. I pulled it out, tracing the engraved words: Regional Champion.
Grandma Clara’s recipe book lay beside it, splattered with chocolate chip batter. I’d baked three batches last weekend, then dumped them in the trash. Too sweet. Too soft.
My phone buzzed again—Lila. Remember when we tried to bake a cake in my Easy-Bake Oven? We burned down the garage.
A laugh burst out of me, sharp and sudden. I slapped a hand over my mouth, glancing at the door. Grandpa’s room was down the hall.
I typed fast before I could stop. *You swore it was a science experiment.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared.
The screen went dark.
So did I.
At school the next day, Jason Miller “tripped” and spilled his lunch tray on me. Meatloaf sludge seeped into my blouse. The cafeteria roared with laughter.
“Oops,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.
I stood slowly, ketchup dripping off my elbow. Lila’s words echoed: *You’re turning into him.*
Jason’s grin faltered as I stepped closer. For a heartbeat, I wanted to scream. To shove him into the table, to unleash every ounce of fury coiled in my bones.
Instead, I smiled. Cold. Calculated. “You’ve got spinach in your teeth.”
I walked out, head high, while he scrambled for a napkin. Let them laugh. Let them whisper.
I had a company to run.